“Correct,” said Nasr. “When the President was certain the Kurds had sent in the bulk of their force, he had his elite guards close the door on them.”
“The President uses other nations as a buffer against his enemies,” Bicking said. “He uses Lebanon to throw terrorists against Israel, Greece to fight Turkey, and helps Iran to create trouble around the world. We should have been prepared for him to do the same with people.”
The sounds of gunfire increased. Hood imagined phalanxes of well-armed soldiers moving through the corridors, gunning down any and all opposition. Though wounded Kurds would be captured, he couldn’t imagine any of them surrendering. Most would find death preferable to incarceration.
The men stopped at another door. The short leader told the others to wait. After withdrawing a small slab of C-4 from his pocket along with a timed detonator, he opened the door and exited. These people might not be the most personable men Bicking had ever met, but he was impressed by how prepared they were.
“Is Ambassador Haveles going to be safe?” Hood asked.
“That’s difficult to say,” Nasr admitted. “Whatever happens is a win-win situation for the Syrian President. If Haveles dies, it’s the Kurds’ fault and the U.S. declines to support them in the future. If he lives, then the elite guards are heroes and the President gets concessions from the U.S.”
The short man returned and motioned the others ahead. The group passed through a large pantry to a door which led to a small outdoor garden. It was surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone fence with a ten-foot-high iron gate at the south end. They walked along a slate path through an immaculately manicured waist-high hedge. When they reached the end of the path, the short man stopped them. They waited some twenty feet from the gate. A moment later the lock exploded, blowing a hole in the gate and in the fence. Almost at once, a large truck with a canvas back pulled up to the curb. The short man ran ahead of the others.
The street was free of pedestrians. Either the fighting or the local police had chased them away. The street was also clear of news crews, which could not go anywhere without the government’s consent. Though as Bicking thought about it, he realized that the government might have sent undercover operatives to the scene. That was probably why the group had taken the long way around. The men didn’t want to be photographed.
The short man pulled the rear flap to one side. Then he motioned to the men at the gate.
As the men approached the truck, they were struck by the strong smell of fish. But that didn’t stop them from boarding. Hood, Bicking, and Nasr climbed in first. They helped the giant man carry on his two wounded companions. Then the rest of the team got in. The wounded men lay on empty canvas sacks, while the other men sat on greasy wooden barrels which lined the back. In less than a minute the truck was on its way, headed southeast toward Straight Street. Turning left, the driver sped past the sixteen hundred year-old Roman Arch and the Church of the Virgin Mary. Straight Street became Bab Sharqi Street, and the truck continued northeast.
Nasr peeked out the back flap of the truck. “As I expected,” said Nasr.
“What?” asked Hood.
Nasr shut the flap and leaned close to Hood. “We’re avoiding the Jewish Quarter.”
“I don’t understand,” Hood said. “What does that mean?”
Nasr bent even closer. “That we are almost certainly in the hands of the Mista’aravim. They would never operate out of that section of the city. If they were ever found out, the repercussions against the Jewish population would be severe.”
Bicking had also leaned toward Hood. “And I’ll bet everything I own that there’s more than fish in these barrels. There’s probably enough firepower in this truck to wage a small war.”
The truck slowed as it made its way through the very narrow and twisted paths. Tall, white houses hung over the road at irregular distances and angles, their once-white walls burned an unhealthy yellow by the sun. Low dormers and even lower clotheslines rubbed the canvas top of the truck, while bicyclists and compact cars moved at their own unhurried pace and made it even more difficult to maneuver.
Eventually, the truck pulled into a dark, dead-end alley. The men got out and walked over to a wooden door on the driver’s side of the alley. They were greeted by two women who helped carry the wounded men in to a dark, spare kitchen. The injured men were placed on blankets on the floor. The women removed their kaffiyehs and trousers, then washed the wounds.
“Is there anything we can do?” Hood asked.
No one answered.
“Don’t take it personally,” Nasr said quietly.
“I didn’t,” said Hood. “They’ve got other things on their minds.”
“They’d be this way even if their men hadn’t been shot,” Nasr whispered. “They’re paranoid about being seen.”
“Understandably,” said Bicking. “The Mista’aravim have infiltrated terrorists groups like Hamas and Hezbollah. They have safe houses like these when they need to work in absolute security. But if they were to be seen here it could cost them their lives and—much worse in their minds—compromise Israeli security. They certainly can’t be very happy about having had to come out to save a bunch of Americans.”
Even as the men spoke, the truck driver and the three masked men rose. While the short man made a telephone call, the others hugged the women. Then they left the dark room. Moments later the gears rattled and moaned as the truck backed from the alley.
One of the women continued to tend to the injured. The other woman stood and faced the three newcomers. She was in her middle-to-late twenties and stood about five feet-two. Her auburn hair was worn in a tight bun, and her thick eyebrows made her brown eyes seem even darker. She had a round face, full lips, and olive skin. She wore a blood-stained apron over her black dress.
“Who is Hood?” she asked.
Hood raised a finger. “I am. Will your men be all right?”
“We believe so,” she said. “A doctor has been sent for. But your associate is correct. The men were not happy about going out. They are even less happy that two of their men have been hurt. Their absence and their wounds will not be easy to explain.”
“I understand,” Hood said.
“You are in my cafe,” the woman said. “You were a delivery of fish. In other words, you cannot be seen outside this room. We will get you to the embassy when we close for the day. I can’t spare the people until then.”
“I understand that as well.”
“In the meantime,” she said, “you’ve been asked to telephone a Mr. Herbert when you arrive. If you don’t have your own telephone I’ll have to get you one. The call cannot appear on our bill here.”
Bicking reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone. “Let’s see if this one’s still working,” he said as he flipped it open. He turned it on, listened for a moment, then handed the phone to Hood. “Made in America and good as new.”
“Also not secure,” Hood said. “But it will have to do.”
Hood walked over to a corner and called Op-Center. He was put through to Martha’s office, where she, Herbert, and members of their staff had been waiting for word about the operation. Because it was an open line, he would only use first names.
“Martha—Bob,” Hood said, “it’s Paul. I’m on a cellular but I wanted you to know that Ahmed, Warner and I are fine. Thanks for everything you did.”
Even standing a few yards away Bicking could hear the cheers rising from the telephone. His eyes moistened as he thought of the incredible relief they all must be feeling.
“What about Mike?” Hood asked, being as discreet as possible.
“He’s been found,” Herbert said, “and Brett is there. We’re still waiting to hear.”
“I’m on the cellular,” Hood said: “Call me the instant you hear anything.”
Hood hung up. As he briefed the others, the doctor arrived. The three men stepped to a corner, well out of the way. Then they watched in silence as the doctor gave the wounded men injections of local anesthetics. The woman who had spoken to them knelt beside one man. She lay a wooden spoon between his teeth, then held his arms pressed to his chest to keep him from flailing. When she nodded, the doctor began cutting the bullet from his leg. The other woman used a washcloth and a basin of water to wipe away the blood.
The man began to wriggle from the pain.
“I’ve always found that the toughest part about being a diplomat is when you have to say and do nothing,” Bicking said softly to Hood.